The Force Rekindles
by PoliceBox221B
Summary: A nurse on a First Order battleship becomes self-aware and begins to remember life before her captivity. Despite her efforts to conceal this, Kylo Ren senses her Force-sensitivity, and invites her to leave her position as a nurse to become his apprentice. As she becomes powerful, she realizes her true purpose in being his student...
1. Chapter 1

The bare hallway echoes I tread it, my shoes tapping against the iron floor. A few officers glance at me, slanting their eyebrows. It's not uncommon for medical droids to run errands around the frigate, though the actual nurses are rarely seen otherwise. I bank left to one of the storage rooms and pull a list out of my pocket, reading it carefully. I gently collect medicines and gauzes from glass shelves and set them onto a metal tray, trying to ignore my reflection. Droids are malfunctioning more often now, and today I had to let half of them reboot, hence this errand. Usually by now I am patching one limb, amputating another, and injecting serums into patients. Being the youngest of five nurses in my quadrant is exhausting.

I return to my assigned infirmary, tray in hand. Already there is a fellow nurse, EK-9372. She greets me with a smiling nod and swoops a painkiller vial off my tray for her patient, Private ZC-5813.

"'Afternoon, Kyu," he greets in a rustic, sleepy voice. My name is QL-3298; he knows I hate to be called 'Q'.

"Good afternoon, officer," I reply as politely as I can. EK turns to me and asks, "Did you get forty-seven's serum, by any chance?"

"Yes, I did. Here it is," I answer, handing her the vial. She takes it, with a faint smile of thanks. Her eyes look bright and alert, matching her blonde, tightly-gathered hair. Her young looks are deceiving; she has been Class C for two years now, making her twenty-nine years old. Z-C's eyes, however, seem swollen and aged for someone of only twenty-seven. In fact, his eyes and current breath suggest that he has been chugging more than just painkillers lately. I'll have to change the cabinet lock.

I move on to a back room, where a droid awaits. I hand it the tray, knowing it will restock the medicine properly. Of the ten droids in this ward, this one gives me the least trouble; the others require repairs every other day. I used to watch the repairman's technique whenever he was called in, so now I'm able to repair them myself. That was a year ago, when I had just changed ranks to Class B. Now I'm at the age of twenty-one, adjusting to my new quadrant in the recovery ward. Our promotion weeks are the only way we keep track of our ages. No one is informed of their exact birthdays. Not in the First Order.


	2. Chapter 2

I check my watch; the clock reads 9:30 pm. Right on schedule. I make sure the night droids are charged for their shift, and likewise re-charge the day-shift droids. I take the sheets off the empty cots to be washed or thrown out. Later, closer to 10, I make a final round through the cots, making sure the few recovering patients are sound for the night. Most of them are already sleeping or drifting off.  
"Who are you?" a raspy voice behind me asks. I turn to see a trooper laying on his cot, clutching his abdomen. I remember this one. He's been unconscious for a few hours since the last battle. I crouch by his bedside.  
" I'm QL-3298. You are on the medical frigate. You've been asleep for a few hours," I say as reassuringly as I can. Instead of calming down, his eyes flicker from me, and he begins to breathe shallowly, panicked. He tries to sit up. I gently catch his shoulder. "Don't sit up, please. You have a wound in your abdomen that still needs to heal," I say. He does not budge, but stares at me with bulging, blank eyes. "Lie back, please," I say, more firmly. This time he listens and reclines back onto his cot, still tense. He shuts his eyes tight and bites down on his lip. At once the color drains from his face, and his eyes swell. Upon instinct, I pull out a plastic container from under the cot and yank his neck, just in time for him to vomit into it.  
When he finishes, he jerks his head back and runs a hand through his ebony, wavy hair. He grits his teeth and clenches his fists until they turn white, like he's in pain. I saw him receive a painkiller serum earlier; this shouldn't be physical pain. His panic and nausea suggest trauma. He still can't look at me; his head is probably still spinning. Or he's remembering something.  
I hand him a glass of mouthwash, letting him rinse and spit into a different container. His breathing steadies, and color slowly returns to his face; it's a light caramel shade.  
"I'll be right back," I tell him soothingly, setting a hand on his shoulder. "Can you eat?"  
He pinches his lips together and shakes his head no. I bring him tea and a meal pill. He swallows without hassle. His shoulders are still hunched, his arms close, his legs drawing up, like he wants to rock back and forth. It's definitely trauma.  
I want to say something, offer some piece of consolation, but nothing comes to mind. Oddly enough, we weren't trained to handle this aspect of the trauma ward life.  
There's an extra blanket in the drawer under his cot; I slide it out and gently wrap it around his shoulders.  
"Thanks," he says faintly.  
"You were on squadron 57, weren't you?" I ask quietly. He nods his head in reply. "Coming from the Saleucami moons?" A slower nod this time.  
I purse my lips. I have two other patients from that battle, but they haven't reacted even close to this one. They were talking briefly about it earlier. Apparently, some of the remaining natives on the moon sneaked into an outpost arsenal and used it against the battalion. It wasn't pretty from there.  
"I'm sorry," is all I can manage to say. He is still. "Your medications are up to date. Can I get you anything else?" I ask. He shakes his head 'no'. I get up to leave, saying goodnight. As I walk away, I hear the cot creak softly as he starts to rock back and forth.


	3. Chapter 3

I crawl into my bed, which is not much different from the hospital cots. My sheets are an ivory white, matching my sheets, drawers, and every article of clothing I own. Uniformity is considered efficiency here in every facet, even our allowed belongings. My quarters are small, with my cot in a corner. When I look to my left, I face a dark wall, which is blank save for a lone square mirror. The far edge of my bed is adjacent to my dresser, which holds only clothes. On the right side of my dresser is the sliding door, with a panel next to it. The panel opens and shuts the door - which has no lock - and has a comm on the panel for emergency communications. There are no windows in my quarters. No one has them. I stare at the blank wall in front of me until it blurs and I fall asleep.

That night I dream of Saleucami, and its hazy amber plains. I see the sun sinking lazily into the horizon, coating the sky with red. It would almost be beautiful, if the ground wasn't also smeared with red. I'm standing in a battlefield. Blaster fire rains around my ears. I scurry behind a crate, and observe. Masked figures with rifles fire at the stormtroopers that surround me, each handling their own weapon. One falls to the ground, screaming, clutching his arm. On instinct, I bolt to him, and clasp off the armor around the shot. I produce a kit, and clean and bandage the wound quickly. I look up, and to my surprise, the squadron ship is there, with the troop scurrying aboard, firing behind them as they go.

"Come on," I tell the soldier, pulling him up with his good arm. I balance him at the waist as he holds his bad arm and another stormtrooper helps me run with him onboard. Relieved, I set the injured trooper down, and clasp a hand over the railing as the door closes. _We're safe_ , I think, exhaling

Then the fire comes.

A fiery fog floods the ship. I'm flying through the air, seeing crimson and black and stars, until I hit the ground with a fierce blow. The sky is dim, like the corners of my eyes. I open them wide, remembering what happened, and scramble to my feet. Not a figure stirs. The blaster fire has ceased. The enemy is gone. As is the ship. I see only a few stormtroopers lie on the ground surrounding the mound of ebony rubble. Their limbs are contorted at awkward angles, their armor splotched with sizzling black patches. For a moment I am frozen, rigid, desperately still. Then I walk over to one that I had just treated seconds earlier. I sit on my knees beside him, my breaths shallow and eyes blurry with tears. I gently tug his helmet off. It's the patient that woke up today, his face bruised. I jump up with a scream, then jolt forward with a gasp, and I see the walls of my room.

A wave of relief comes over me, along with cold. I don't feel the crispy heat of the explosion any more.

When my breaths don't even out, I stand up and walk to the bathroom, to the left of my dresser. I turn on the lights, which sting my eyes. I wet a facecloth and stroke my face with it. The water is freezing. Space is cold. Looking up, I see an unfamiliar reflection. She is a young woman, her eyes shaded with dark grey and her pale lips frowning. Her brown hair is frayed and messy, most likely from rolling on the pillow in fear. How is this me? I wonder. I glance at the clock. 3:45 am. Right on schedule.


	4. Chapter 4

One time. One blasted time in the field. One time is all it took for me to get less than four hours of sleep a night. The clock reads 6:30 am. I finish folding the sleeves of my uniform, shoving the cuffs on, and step outside. My shift starts in an hour, but I like to check on the patients anyways. The medical droids aren't always reliable in their night shifts. I can't sleep anyways.  
I stroll though the cots quietly, with my hands clasped behind my back. All of them are fast asleep, even the one that woke up yesterday. The one I rolled over in my dream. At least I know his night wasn't like mine- I had slipped some sleeping serum in the tea I gave him. I knew he'd need it as badly as I did; I'm not authorized to take any medicines. Nurses never get sick.  
Across the room is a small rectangular case, with some buttons on its side. I press one, and a translucent screen appears comes on, asking for my authorization code. I enter mine on the turquoise touchpad keys, and I'm in the system. A list of my quadrant's patient information and medication appears. I scroll through it, checking for any treatment that has to be administered at this time. No one. I process orders for new medications and supplies. A gentle tone sounds for every order I confirm. EK's job is done.  
I glance over my shoulder, then peer across the room. Tapping a blue translucent button, a new screen appears. It's the profile information of the new patient, the one who's tea I drugged. A photo comes appears with several lines of basic content. Name: C-Y-8349.  
Age: 21.  
Training: Class A. Rookie, I think. That explains it.  
Missions: 3.  
What? How can there be trauma at the third mission? I scroll aggressively. He's completed a Resistance sweep on Quell. Outpost security on Geonosis. And... An offense squadron on Saleucami.  
I purse my lips. That was his first actual battle, which must have gone particularly bad if it shook him up so much.  
I think of his wound on his abdomen. The injury was minor; enough for two droids to handle. He should be able to walk efficiently sometime today, with a brace. What happened that went so wrong? I tap on the screen to show me more details, but it's past my authority level. The words "Access prohibited" flash on the screen. I guess that's enough probing for now. I close the window and screen, revealing the face of the head nurse of this quadrant in front of me, GN-5251.  
"Good morning, Q-L," she says.  
"Good morning, madam," I reply.  
She smiles widely, revealing the lines around her eyes and mouth. She has been a head nurse for 5 years now. That would make her almost forty years old. Like EK, the years don't show at all. Leaning closer, she says excitedly, "Isn't your promotion coming up?"  
"I believe so, madam," I answer. "In a few days' time."  
"Do you know if you're being transferred?"  
"Not yet, madam."  
"Class C," she sighs, with an air of nostalgia. "I remember those days. Who knows, you might be assigned a small trainee group of your own, like I was."  
I smile in acknowledgment, but the thought of being a trainer makes me shudder. I'm already uneasy with my own job performance as it is.  
Some of the patients begin to stir and rub their eyes. GN leaves to tend to them. I check the time: 7:00 am. I took that long?  
I scurry off into the back rooms. It's time to prepare breakfast.

Most of the patients can feed themselves; those who can't are assigned a droid to assist. I bring a tray to CY's cot and snap it in place at a safe distance from his wound.  
"Feeling better?" I ask.  
"Yes. Thank you," he replies, rubbing his eyes. The serum worked; good for him. I pull a small clear vial from my pocket and set it on his tray. He blinks harshly, and repeatedly, like it's blurry. Maybe the serum worked too well. I continue, "As soon as you've finished eating, wait five minutes and take this, please."  
"Ok," he says, nodding.  
As I turn to walk away, he speaks again. "Excuse me, miss?"  
"Yes?"  
"Where is my uniform?" He asks. I hesitate, trying not to stammer, because I know the answer. His eyes are dark, wide, and innocent. He's twenty-one years old, but looks seventeen.  
"I believe it was disposed of. However, you will be issued a new one upon recovery," I say as optimistically as I can. He remains frozen for a moment, almost in disbelief. "Thank you," he mutters, looking away. I hesitate again, then resume walking.  
Whether he believes in the First Order or not, a uniform is still important. These are soldiers, nonetheless, and they treasure their armor just the same. I bite my bottom lip hard, remembering that his was disposed of because it was irreparably drenched in-  
"QL. I need your help," a voice says, interrupting my thoughts. It's TM, another Class B. She paces quickly to me, and breathes apprehensively. "It's Private Kenfrill. He broke into the cabinet again."  
I sigh. I've just about had enough of this man. "This is the third time. We'll have to report him now."  
"It's not just that," TM continues, rushed. Her eyes are panicked as she says, "He's not waking up."  
My heart drops. I knew it. Without another word, we sprint to the medicine stock room. After diving through a few hallways, we lunge into the room. There lies Kenfrill - he's face up, splayed out, and unconscious. I kneel on the ground and check his pulse.  
"I've got a heartbeat, but it's fading," I announce. "Get a stretcher, please."  
TM goes at once. I wave my hand over his mouth, then press my ears to his chest. He's barely breathing. There's broken glass on the floor; I trace it to the numerous vials he's gone through. They're all labeled "Jaxelaphine" - the strongest painkillers in stock. My heart dives between my lungs. He may not wake up this time.  
I pat his face. "Private. Private Kenfrill," I call loudly. No response. I'm going to regret this. I give him a hard smack on the face. Or not. No reaction. This one I already regret, I think as I suck in a gust of air and give him mouth-to-mouth. I set my hands and pump his chest rhythmically. I repeat this twice. Where is TM? What is taking her so-  
Kenfrill gasps, and his eyes bulge open. He begins to cough raucously. I sigh in relief, but this isn't over. His breathing is labored, strained, and wheezing. "What is this?" He asks in a slurred voice. I shush him quietly.  
"It's all right," I reply vaguely, knowing he can't mentally process anything else right now. TM at last arrives with a stretcher and sets it on the floor. She sighs with relief. "He's awake."  
"Quick. You get the legs," I say, as I slip my arms under his torso and neck. We carefully lift him and ease him onto the stretcher, as soon as we raise it, he's lost consciousness again. "Hurry," I say anxiously. We might lose him.  
We race back into the main ward, where two more nurses help us transfer him onto a standard cot. We plug him up to a fluids machine. His breathing is staggered but consistent. The machine hums as it awakens. It will pump fluids in his system, but more treatment is needed. I turn and program a nearby nurse droid to "overdose" mode. It beeps and clambers over to the private's cot, with its team following suit. They get to work. It's over.  
The rest of us nurses stand back.  
"They'll handle the rest," I say to TM, who is also still panting. "Thank you," TM says. "And I'm sorry I took so long to get the cot. A droid reprogrammed the lock."  
"The handprint lock?" I say disbelievingly.  
"Yes. I had to find it and make it override the lock."  
"I see." That's strange.  
She pauses, and looks back at Kenfrill, being treated by the droids. "Do you think he'll be alright?"  
"Hopefully so... Of course, he'll be permanently discharged from his battalion, sent to rehab, and most likely work in station maintenance the rest of his terms. But he'll be fine."  
TM gives me a confused look. I forgot that sarcasm is frowned upon here. "He'll be fine. Excuse me," I say, and walk off before I make things more awkward.


	5. Chapter 5

t's 7:00 pm. I watch as the droids bring in the empty dishes and trays from dinner. There's only the sound of the faint hum of their hover wheels and dishes quietly being stacked. When they finish, I make my round through the cots. I glance at CY's direction, and see him getting up from the cot, cringing in pain. I run in his direction and grab his waist before he collapses onto the ground. He jerks his head to my direction, shocked that I'm there; with a sharp exhale of force, I lift him back onto the cot, where he clutches his wound area. "Sorry. I couldn't take it anymore. I had to move," he says apologetically. "You could have requested a droid or a nurse," I snap. "Yes, I could have. You all seemed busy," he says in a voice strained with pain. "Do you really think we could function as a hospital if we were too busy for our patients?" I say quietly. "Whoa. Sarcasm. I've never heard that from a nurse before," he says, trying to smile, then wincing. I resist the urge to sigh- I slipped again.  
"How did you get here so fast, anyways?" He asks.  
"I'm just fast," I say in a matter-of-fact tone.  
"Really? I've never seen a nurse with such sharp reflexes. Thanks." I merely smirk in acknowledgement; I know that he's right, but I never stop to think of it. A brief period of awkward silence ensues. "Come on," I say, extending my arm.  
"What?"  
"You want to walk? Let's walk."  
He hesitates for a moment. "How?"  
"Exactly. This is why you need someone's help- to teach you how to walk again. So here, I'll show you." I slide his left arm over my shoulder, leaving his right one on his wound.  
"Shift to the edge so your feet touch the ground," I tell him. He obeys. "Now, we're gradually going to let you apply more and more weight until you can stand. Does that seem ok?"  
"Ok," he says apprehensively.  
"Ok," I reply, and set my right hand on his waist to brace his back while I cling to his left arm. Slowly but surely he slides off of the cot until his full weight rests on his legs. His abdomen isn't expanding; he must be holding his breath.  
"Breathe," I say, and he obeys, inhaling and exhaling shallowly. "Ready?" I ask, and he nods faintly in reply. Gradually, he leans until he's standing upright. I can feel his arm trembling; this hurts. I grip his hand. "You're doing great. Keep it up," I say reassuringly. He eventually stops shaking, and evens out his breaths. "You ready to take a step?" He nods, trying not to focus on the pain, I can tell. "Remember, it's all about balance and dealing with the pressure of weight."  
"Okay," he says, and slowly moves his left foot forward, planting it on the ground. He grins and exhales sharply.  
"Good. Another," I say. He does so with the other foot, a little quicker. "Great," I commend him. "Let's see how far you can go." Inch by inch, we make it across the width of the entire ward. When we reach the wall, we lean on it for support, since I can't let go of him- he may still fall. His breathing is labored; it's exhausting to walk with the pain. Nonetheless, he seems to be very pleased with his achievement. After catching our breath, I say, "Great job. You made it. Now, I'll tell you what. For the way back, I'm just going to hold your waist for support, and you walk back the same way."  
"Sure. Let's do it," he says, some confidence renewed. I stand at his side, planting my hands and forearms on either side of his waist. He clutches his wound with one arm, and hangs out the other for balance. He cringes, and flashes his gritted teeth a few times, but he never shakes or asks to stop. We make it back to his cot. Slowly, I ease him down just as gently as he had gotten up. While he holds his abdomen, I swing his legs up onto the bed. He looks exhausted, but relieved at the same time. "See? Waiting for help wasn't so bad, was it?" I say jokingly. He smirks and lets out a huff of amusement. "How do you feel?" I ask, more serious this time. "I feel like I might actually sleep tonight," he says, still smiling.  
"Other than that," I reply, starting to smirk myself. "Any unusual pain, dizziness, nausea?..."  
"Nope," he says. "It's all good."  
I check my watch. 7:38 pm- I've got to go. "I'm glad I could help. I'll check on you tomorrow, and you could do it again, if you're up to it."  
"Sure. Sounds great," he replies.  
"Okay. Good night."  
"Good night," he says, and I turn around to leave.  
"Oh-wait!" He exclaims. I spin back around. "I just realized that I never got your name," he says.  
"My name QL-3298."  
"Thanks, QL."  
"You're welcome," I reply, and slowly take my leave. I can't remember the last time a patient thanked me.  
I take the final cot-check shift instead of EK, since it's so late. Cot by cot, I check the machines, the temperature of the patients, ask for unusual symptoms, and so on. Lastly I reach Kenfrill, whose bed was moved to the far edge of the ward. His eyes are blank, staring off at a place I can't see; there are lots of those here in the trauma ward.  
"Do you require anything, Private Kenfrill?" I ask politely.  
"No, QL, thank you," he replies quietly, not even glancing at me. I'm surprised he used my actual name. I offer him a cup of tea I brought, also drugged with sleeping serum. "Take this," I say. "It will help you sleep." He turns and merely stares at the cup. "Oh. I'm sorry," I say and take his hand, lift it, and wrap his fingers around the cup. He's probably received numbing serum. I grip his wrist with one hand and fingers with another as he takes a sip. His eyes look even more tired. He's thirty-one, but doesn't look much older than I am; it helps that his jaw is chiseled and that his hair is blond and wavy. His eyes are an icy blue, but their youth is fading fast; instead, they turn red. He stops drinking, and turns his head abruptly.  
"What's wrong?" I ask. He doesn't reply; I can feel him trying to tug his hand away. "You shouldn't take care of me," he replies in a strained voice. "That's kind of my job," I say, dropping my nurse voice intentionally. "No. Just leave me be. Thank you, but leave," he replies. I suppress a sigh; he's hitting the depression cycle. "Why?" I ask.  
"Just go," he insists. "Please." Another nurse might have decided to respect his privacy and leave, but not me. I can't leave him now. I take a deep breath.

"I understand you may be embarrassed. But perhaps if you were to explain yourself, I could understand your situation better," I say, back to my nurse voice. "What would you care about my situation?" he snaps. "I'm the laughingstock of this ward- I can't even take a drink on my own now."

"No one is a laughingstock here, Private Kenfrill. Even if they existed, you would never be the chief of them," I reply coolly. He glances back to me. I continue. "Do you think you're the first one to overdose in this ward? On this ship? Who of these patients would dare laugh at you?" His eyes lower. He's letting me speak; I'll run with it. "Now, what concerns me is that this time you didn't turn to the alcohol-containing syrups. You turned to the strongest painkillers in stock. So what happened? Did the nurses cut your treatment too early?"

"No."

"Were you addicted?"

"What? No."

"Then what?"

"Are you certain it's your problem?"

"If it determines whether I have to revive you again, yes. Absolutely."

He sighs, hesitating. He tries to find words, clenching his fists in anxiety. "I- I was trying... To stop it."

"Stop what?"

"The nightmares. The pain. I- got tired of it," he says. He runs his hand through his hair, clenching for a moment. The numbing serum is wearing off. "It took so long to recover physically, because I was in such bad shape when I first arrived here. But no one could do anything about remembering the pain. I usually just numbed it with the syrups, but today... Today I just wanted it to stop. I went from wanting to sleep for once to wanting to sleep forever." Then he scoffs at himself, and continues, "I must sound like a fool. You probably have no idea what I'm talking about. I forgot- nurses don't have nightmares. You don't get wounds, you don't lose sleep. You have no idea, do you?"

I force him to take another sip of the tea, so that I can lean in and say, "I wouldn't be so sure. Don't assume you're an island." I back away, regaining my professional, nurse-like composure. He seems to be a bit taken aback, but hopefully that cut through to him. Speaking of which, that serum is cutting through right now. He rubs his eyes. "What was in that tea?" he asks, slurred. I smirk and reply, "If you want to sleep, I can arrange that. If you want to die, not on my watch." He tries to protest, but the serum is strong. "Good night, Private Kenfrill," I say, and he nods off. I pull the sheets over him, and that's that. As I stroll back down the ward, I catch a glimpse of CY, nearly snoring in his cot. To think that when he arrived, they weren't sure if he'd wake up.

Not on my watch.


End file.
